The Army of Unalterable Law
by firiette
Summary: The world ended on a Monday.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Army of Unalterable Law

Summary: The world ended on a Monday.

Spoilers: Seasons 1-5, AU after _Two Minutes to Midnight_

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Warnings: Wincest, violence, sexual situations, language

Rating: MA (18+)

Disclaimer: I don't own _Supernatural_ nor the characters.

AN: I'd like to thank shadows59 for holding my hand while I cried through this prologue. Thank you.

* * *

Prologue

Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.

And now upon his western wing he lean'd,

Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd.

Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows.

~_ Lucifer in Starlight _by George Meredith

**Then**

**August 4th, 1997**

The slamming of a motel door was a sound Dean had heard more in the last half year than _Stairway to Heaven_. Or even _Thunderstruck_. Maybe less than _Rock of Ages_, but somewhere in the vicinity above _Welcome to the Jungle_ and _Black Dog._ What that mathematically added up to was a big, shining ball of fourteen-year-old Sam who, over the past six months, hated his life, his clothes, their dad, and now, as of two minutes ago, Dean.

The argument had been stupid, starting off disguised as them discussing (ha, _discussing)_ what they were going to do when – if, when – they ran out of food, which went down the never-ending fucking road of Sam's anger towards their father. Dean had pushed, pointed out that _Dean_ took care of them, so they'd be fine, they were always fine, but he might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Sam had started shouting after that, stomping around in aggravated circles, the already bruised kitchenette floorboards groaning with his weight. He tugged at his sweaty t-shirt as he yelled.

_He abandoned us, Dean._

_We're going to starve to death, Dean._

_He doesn't care about us, Dean._

_He doesn't care about you._

And Dean had shouted too, said whatever crossed his mind, flinging insults and digs that had made Sam's face twist, his mouth squeeze shut, and this awful fucking look fell like a curtain over his eyes. Quiet and oh so deadly, Sam spun on his heel in a whirl of brown hair, the door closing clapping like a gunshot.

The TV, on mute, was playing in the living room, people moving and speaking without sound, like an old vaudeville act. They hadn't seen the last part of _Return of the Jedi_. Which was okay with him. Dean really didn't want Sam anywhere near a movie where there was a kid who tried to slice his father into pieces with a lightsaber. Sam was impressionable, and easily provoked, and Dean was mildly scared he wouldn't blame his brother a bit if he decided to go Luke Skywalker on them.

John hadn't come home in twenty-two days. He hadn't called in twelve. There was nothing but peanut butter and grape jelly and half a loaf of Wonderbread left in the cupboards and the handful of twenties John had shoved in Dean's hands before he left was down to two dollars and three pathetic pennies.

Dean sat at the table, picking at a crusted soya sauce stain with his fingernail, pissed at Dad, pissed at Sam, and pissed mostly at himself for being pissed. Dad went on hunts, Sam got mad, Dean took the rap for it. That's how it had been since Sam could reach the sink to wash his own hands. It wasn't about the food, not anymore. Dean could always sneak some from a gas station or, if not, there was a vending machine near the rear entrance. It was about Sam, and him growing up, and him being too smart and too large for this tiny little existence as a hunter.

The Rebels were invading the Death Star on the TV when he threw his shoes on and set off to look for Sam. It was 7:30 and night was crawling in on them fast. There were things, monsters, that came out at night, and Dean was never angry enough to put Sam in danger just because they were mad at each other.

Dean tried not to notice how he lasted the whole of five minutes without him.

It was hot outside, but cooler than the motel room. The sun was setting, casting strings of orange, yellow, and pink over the deep green tiles of the restaurant across the road.

Sam didn't go far – for his bluster and bother, he wouldn't leave.

Opened, the gate to the motel pool made a slight squeaking noise from overused hinges that needed to be oiled twenty years ago. There Sam was, in all his sulky teenage glory, seated on his ass on the puke-yellow diving board, head bent over something in his hand. Dean didn't see what; he could only catch the broadening line of Sam's shoulders and the knobbiness of his spine.

He closed the gate and Sam looked up.

Dean hovered, dark shadows and red luminescent lights from the motel playing weird tricks with Sam's face. They watched each other in the semi-dark for a second, neither doing much, before Sam shoved his nose where it had been the entire summer – directly in some book. Sam had this annoying habit of moving his lips to whatever he was reading and he licked his fingers to turn the pages no matter how much Dean rolled around and gagged when he did. John had the habit, too.

Not that Sam wanted to know that. Ever. Sam was okay with having genes in common with him, and, sometimes, hardly that.

The diving board dipped and creaked when Dean sat on it. "Whatcha readin', beanpole?"

Sam centered himself more firmly where he was, glaring at Dean for nearly shaking him off. Or for the argument – with Sam, it's often hard to tell."Stuff," he grunted.

So that was how it was going to be today. He didn't make things easy.

"What kind of stuff?"

"A book," Sam huffed, now eyeing Dean. "You know. With words."

"Yeah, with words. I know what books are, genius. What are you reading?" Trying to peek over Sam's shoulder was pointless, what with Sam elbowing him in the gut. "Porn?"

Sam glowed red under his sunburn.

"No! You're such a pig." He hunkered down into his book, burying his face behind yellowing pages, trying to look tiny in a six-foot frame. "Poetry, okay? And shut up. It's for school."

"School isn't for three weeks." But, of course, not like Sam cared. He'd practically salivated when he found out that they would be spending two months there on a werewolf hunt. "What's it about? Bees? Flowers? How the deep, dark ocean symbolizes the inner workings of your soul?"

"The end of times, actually. Fire. Brimstone. The works."

Dean raised an eyebrow, grudgingly impressed.

"Okay, okay, not as lame as flowers." Dean leaned back on his palms, stretching out on the board. The toes of his boots skimmed the pool water. "Read me some?" he asked, and meant, _I'm sorry_.

"You're not serious." Sam's eyebrows crept into his hair. "Dude, you hate poetry."

"Think of this as your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to torture me with iambic pentameters and that shit." Sam was quiet beside him – really quiet, head titled like he was trying to figure out if Dean was screwing with him or not, which normally he would be, but Dean was hungry and tired and Sam loved poetry. "Well? You gonna do it or not?"

"You serious?"

Across the way, someone in room 202 had their window and curtains open and Dean could see the fan rotating on the ceiling. A bead of sweat ran down his forearm. He rubbed his face. "As the plague. As Ted Nugent's chin-eyebrow. What do you want from me? Just read it."

"Fine," Sam sighed, but Dean could see him smiling into his book, dimples poking out, and meant_ I forgive you_. Licking his finger (gross) and turning the pages backwards a few times, Sam began to read: "_Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice…_"

Dean watched the swirling grey-white blades of that fan in room 202, pretty certain this heat was close to what rose out of Hell, but he wasn't too inclined to care.

* * *

**Then**

**May 10th, 2010**

The world ended on a Monday.

Which. _Of_ _course_ it would pick a fucking _Monday _to end.

The day that's supposed to be filled with disgruntled parents woken too early and civilians complaining about the tediousness of their jobs and how they wish it was the weekend. Not on a full moon, not during Samhein or the summer equinox. A Monday. Average, ordinary, nothing-special-about-it Monday.

It didn't go out with a bang or a flash or people running in the streets screaming with blood pouring down their eyes, pointing up at the sky and shouting at the top of their lungs about the Apocalypse. No, it sizzled out, sputtered and went quietly, peacefully, like an eighty-year-old Christian lady in her sleep.

They were in Rainbrook, a town plunked down in the very space between Jasper and Hanceville on Route 69, twenty-five minutes after veering left on County Road 222. Thirty-six point two miles from Jasper, sixteen point nine from Dodge City.

The entire makeup of the streets were row after row of postcard southern houses, gleaming pearls strung together by paved roads. It was picturesque, the kind of place with men wearing knit sweaters and women in long white skirts. Dean and Sam checked into a moth-eaten motel – same as usual – and while they waited for their key, Dean wondered aloud what a community like this would do if a stripper found her way here.

Sam laughed. The check-in girl didn't.

The diner two blocks away from the hotel was nothing special, besides its grossly red walls that looked like ketchup – or blood – and the seats were plastic and uncomfortable, even in the booths. He ordered the special of bacon and fried eggs, smiling casually at a kid in the other booth, feeling almost weirdly content.

The cashier lady wasn't busy besides swatting at flies. She was doing it old-fashioned, rolled-up newspaper and flinging madly at the buzzing insects curling around the counter.

Swat, swat, swat.

Splat.

"– these people?"

Dean frowned and tuned back into the conversation. "What?"

"I _said_," Sam huffed in a tone that meant he'd said it a lot, "do you have any suggestions for what could be killing these people? Ghost?"

"Hell, I don't know." Dean shrugged. Crossed his arms. "But, hey, ya know what we _should_ be doing?"

Immediately, Sam's lips turned into a frown. "Dean."

Ignoring him, Dean carried on. "We should be using the rings to kick Satan six ways back into the Pit. And what're we doin' instead? Eating waffles."

"Actually, I'm having an omelet." The joke fell flat, strained. Sam cleared his throat and began fiddling with his napkin. "Okay, look, we can't do much until Lucifer is in Detroit. We can't track him, we can't find him, so why not do some good before then?" He met Dean's eyes, grinned a little. "Hunting things, helping people?"

God. Those words were always cropping up to bite him in the ass.

"Fine. All right." Dean threw his hands in the air. "Christ. So. Ghost?"

Sam's shoulders visibly relaxed. "Sounds like it to me. Fits, doesn't it? Different people, but each a girl with the same hobbies, dropping dead from the same thing? All we have to do is find out who it is."

"Sure, no problem. There's only a bazillion evil spirits to pick through."

Swat, swat, swat. Splat. The cashier caught another, heaving an angry growl and muttering about crazy fly-hoards.

"Twelve potential evil spirits, actually," Sam corrected. "Eh, well, eleven, since there's probably zero possibility the latest is the ghost. Point is, we have a big list."

"Wouldn't it be one of the earlier deaths?"

"There's no way of telling a real suicide from a ghost-induced suicide, uh, murder. For all we know, the ghost could've only started recently, killing maybe two or three, or it could be the first girl."

"You're basically saying we have a shitload of work to do."

"Basically."

"If you ask me, it's not any of 'em."

"Who then?"

Dean took a gulp of his coffee – it wasn't bad, not good, but not bad either. "You know who."

"Greta Bird? Not this again."

"Hey, the hair on my arms is still standing up and it's been three hours since we left. You can't tell me that doll museum she's got going didn't give you the heebie-jeebies."

"Okay, granted, the house is spooky. But you can't put an old lady as a suspect because she likes dolls, Dean."

"Oh, I can't?"

"She's _eighty-three_," Sam said, exasperated. "Plus she doesn't have a connection to _any_ of the victims besides her granddaughter. She's not dead either, so she can't be a vengeful spirit. You need to be _not alive_ to be a ghost."

They grew quiet when the waitress – average-looking, short, lip ring, named Jena – dropped their plates without ceremony on the table. She had a mustard smear on her shirt, the tired-and-frazzled expression of a young kid working through college. She had a sweet 'enjoy, boys' for them, though, and a chipper greeting for the next table she waited on.

Dean spared the waitress a glance, then continued after a moment. "Voodoo then." He picked up his fork and stabbed an egg. "She's goin' on the list."

When he tossed his arm not-so-casually on the booth to land close to Sam's shoulders, just to bug him, Dean hid his smile behind his cup of coffee, and then turned and asked Sam what he wanted to do: go research in the local library, or interview the suspects.

They left the waitress a generous tip and Dean caught a fly with his palms on the way out.

The walk a block to the Impala was at once entertaining and annoying as hell. Sam complained about the bees, about the grasshoppers bouncing across his shoe, about the lack of information they usually encountered at these podunk libraries. Dean stopped walking when a flash of red and green color took his mind off of the _shut up, Sammy _going through his mind.

"Dude, check it out." He jerked his thumb at the front window of a thrift shop.

Beside him, Sam slowed and peered through the glass. "What?"

"_Star Wars_, man. I haven't seen that in years."

_Star Wars_, the complete trilogy on VHS, shoved between _Encino Man _and a 90's romcom. A bit dusty, torn, but still a beautiful sci-fi with robots and battles and absolutely nothing to do with angels or Lucifer or deals.

Sam's narrowed eyes glanced at him sideways. "You're not getting _Star Wars_."

"Why not? Lightsabers, good n' evil, Princess Leia, ours for a dollar ninety-nine. You can't say no to that."

"No, Dean. We're on a case, remember?"

But by the end of his question, Dean was already opening the door, eyes on the beaten-up VHS. "What? We can't stop to watch a movie? C'mon, Sammy, live a little. The Apocalypse isn't going anywhere."

Sam rolled his eyes and waited in feigned disinterest while Dean bought the tape. He made comments the entire walk to the Impala how he wasn't going to watch it, how Dean was such a nerd for those films, both knowing full well that they'd be sitting on the couch with a bag of Cheetos and quoting Yoda by six o'clock.

Normal Monday.

Normal except that night Dean went to sleep with the sound of Han Solo's blaster and cicadas buzzing his damn ears off, the next morning he woke up to absolute silence. Nothing. At first, he'd thought there was something wrong with his ears – a change of pressure, sudden deafness, hoodoo, a spell. In his line of work you couldn't rule out any possibility. Then Sam sat up in the bed beside him, eyes wide, and said, "Where are the bugs?"

And they knew then and there that the problem wasn't them at all, but the world.

The ghost's case was forgotten.

For some reason, Dean thought about that waitress, back at that diner. He thought about the girl at the reception desk, who hadn't smiled at his jokes, and the creepy old lady with the doll museum He thought about them and wondered what they were doing at the end.

And, truth be told, it didn't really end. Not per say. There were still people everywhere when Dean looked out the window, going about their morning business of newspaper-reading and getting ready for work and kissing their wives goodbye. A young mother across the street was helping her kid – a seven-year-old girl with a yellow backpack – get ready for school. It was so domestic and perfect that Dean wanted to throw up a little, because him and Sam felt it and saw the world ending right in front of their eyes. Even if no one else did.

It took three whole days before anyone noticed. That's when news reports started rolling in about the mysterious vanishing of animals, of house pets tearing off their leashes or clawing through screen doors and up and high-tailing it into forests, of the total absence of bugs. Obviously, the wildlife knew what was up before the stupid humans could grab a clue. Then the more serious things, like drops in temperature and extreme climate changes. Stuff like it snowing in the Sahara Desert, lakes freezing over in the middle of a heatwave.

When snow hit the small town in Alabama in late May, people stumbled out of their houses in shorts and t-shirts to stare up at the flakes with the craziest mirror expressions of awe and fear Dean had ever seen. He touched the fogging glass on the windowpane, drew fat lines in it, and marvelled at how he'd always thought it would've been ash plugging the streets with white.

It was the Apocalypse in the way the Bible had never predicted. Dean Winchester had slept right on through the world's end. He hadn't been able to do a thing about it and Sam spent hours staring blankly at his laptop screen, hands as empty and useless as Dean's. All they could do after that was stand on the precipice and watch as the sky fell down.


	2. Chapter 2

Interlude

It was funny, in that morbid kind of way that wasn't actually funny, that he had spent a whole year fighting his addiction, with Dean right along side him telling him how fucked it was, and now Sam was back where he'd been before Lilith and the final seal and Hell – drinking demon blood, except with his own cheering squad of Dean, Bobby, and Castiel this turn around. They had changed their tunes quickly enough when they needed Sam to knock back a demon's juice to save the world. Weird how life worked out sometimes.

Just looking at the containers – milk jugs, _milk jugs_, like this was a supernatural game of Fear Factor – nestled in the Impala's trunk had made him sicker than when he'd contracted the stomach flu from Lacey Carter in third grade.

There was no possibility of not doing this, of giving up, of saying to his brother, "Hey, maybe we could forget this, go hide out in the countryside until this blows over, maybe get a dog." He had no choice. Dean wouldn't agree, anyway. He would only fight that much harder, longer, to see this through. Sam couldn't let that happen. Dean had been taking the hits for him longer than Sam knew how to talk, and he was just supposed to step aside? Let Dean do what he does best? Let him sacrifice it all for Sam again? No, Sam wasn't going to let it happen. Not this time.

The jug's handle was plastic and cold in his grip. The first sip was like falling, or like dying, or something in-between that Sam couldn't name. The second was worse because the wrenching in his stomach began to slowly turn from disgust to craving. Each sip afterwards, thick red sludge sliding down his throat, was hungered for more than the last. Sam felt blood decanting from his lips as he steadily tipped the jug farther, making his chin wet and sticky, soaking his neck, the collar of his shirt.

Dean didn't watch.

By the last drop in the last container, he could feel it thrumming through him, giving him the strength he'd tried for but couldn't reach with Ruby, like a black cloud plugging up his veins and seeping through the pores of his skin. Sam felt powerful. He had never expected that, to feel powerful and be able to stare down the Devil with the same misplaced bravery his brother had shown their whole lives. He had drunk so much blood, more than he ever had before. And it was all for _him_. All for Lucifer.

But, really, it was all for someone else. Of course, Dean wouldn't believe that. Or he'd call him a girl for the sentiment.

Sam thought, standing in Detroit, that he would have guessed a former angel of the Lord would choose a place more grand, with more panache. Something more impressive. Maybe the summit of a sky-scraper. Maybe the very base of an underground cave, stalactites and oozing black shadows, otherworldly and wild, much like Lucifer himself. Or the ironic quality of a church. He hadn't pictured this – a creepy, rickety apartment building about six million years old, its wood decaying as soon as you'd look at it.

"Let me go in first," Dean told him.

"Dean, come on."

But Dean was already tucking his gun into the back of his belt, flipping his coat to cover up the handle. "I always go in first. You know that. Older brother ruling."

It was unfair, but it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't matter in a couple of minutes who went in first or who was last. It wouldn't matter what foot they put in front of the other, or that Sam's hands shook, or his mouth was full of iron. Because this was it. Nothing but their plan mattered.

Sam glanced quickly around them (old habits die hard) to see if anyone would see, or care, that they were essentially breaking and entering. There were no people in sight, likely hiding from the weather at home. He could see right across the street, could catch a glimpse of a Chinese restaurant. It had a sign in its doorway boasting about a special on lo mein, and in scrawling cherry script under that was written The Deal of the Century! Snow had piled high on the striped awning above the storefront; there was no telling how long it would stand under the weight before it collapsed.

"Fine," Sam said.

Dean went in first.

The door opened easily, not locked or warded. Though, Sam supposed, that would be rather useless in an an entire building wriggling with demons. By the look of it, no one – human or otherwise – had gone near these apartments in a very long time.

They were greeted by six demons when they stepped inside the claustrophobic hallway. They were lined up, three on either side, unaggressive and unblinking , like statues. They were lackeys, ones Sam could kill in a second with no more than a thought.

Dean tensed beside him but didn't react as one of the demons stepped forward. It was a man, tall, shaven, in a business suit so thin the host must've been freezing. It was silent, its eyes flitting to black to brown once, nodding its head at them in a gesture Sam took to mean they were supposed to follow.

The three of them walked up the creaking staircase without speaking, no banter and no snide jokes from Dean to distract Sam. They were led to the second floor, down another hallway smaller than the last, and to a door marked as room 999. The symbolism wasn't lost on him.

The inside was somehow, by some miracle, more disgusting than the outside. Dirty curtains and an ugly carpet, what was left of it, that shed and had worn to thin, stretchy splotches. The sheer dust and dirt was off-putting. It made Sam feel unclean. But with the demon blood flooding into his heart, feeling polluted was hardly a new experience. Sam had been unclean for years.

It took a moment to locate Lucifer in the fading yellow light, but there he was, a dark shadow against the apartment window. He hardly blinked as Sam and Dean were escorted in. The glass of the window was fogged with humidity, Lucifer sketching pitchforks into it, lazy, like he had really nothing better to do.

"Sorry if it's a bit chilly," he intoned, voice sliding, slicking, over them. "Most people think I burn hot. It's actually quite the opposite."

Before Sam could say what he had to – "I'm here to say yes", like he'd rehearsed, like they'd _planned_ – Lucifer was there beside him, spilling perfect, pretty words as the vessel's face corroded, its skin peeling off in burning red pock marks. He grinned wickedly, looking for a split second very similar to the fork-tongued demon he was supposed to be, whispering to Sam that special word.

A deal.

"A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Sammy," Lucifer murmured, low, for Sam's ears only. "One you can't refuse."

A bargain. Deal of the century.

Just like that, the plan stopped mattering.

In his lifetime, he'd been told that things that looked too good to be true probably were – and not only that, but they were probably cursed or possessed too. But this was an opportunity. If it worked, if Lucifer kept his side of it, then…How could Sam not?

He was a Winchester – they self-sacrifice until there's no breath in their bodies and no ground left to stand on. If he were Dean, he would deny the deal. Laugh in Lucifer's face. Go on with the plan of using the Horsemen's rings to open up the Cage.

Dean had said no to Michael, but, then, he was always the smarter one of them, the one with more sense and intelligence than their father had given him credit for, and Sam was the brother who grew his hair too long and defied their father's rules and ran away to California. Dean had said no simply because he was Dean. Because, when push came to shove, he was there with a smart remark, Metallica in the tape deck, and ready to do what was right.

Sam was not Dean.

Lucifer's hand landed on Sam's shoulder, weight heavy there, and everything buckled and collapsed.

"Yes," Sam choked, feeling the aching quiet, the cold air, smelling the musty walls and dust.

The word hurt, tore up his throat with razors on butterfly wings. But still Sam said it, he said, "Yes," and meant _yes,_ and closed his eyes against the squealing light, Dean's cry of outrage lost in the cacophony. He only wished that the betrayed, anguished look in Dean's eyes wasn't the last thing he saw. He knew, though. He knew that Dean's face would stay with him, a brace between his teeth for the pain, for what was to come.

Lucifer grasped onto him, fingers thin, chilling on his shirt, and suggested, "Get ready for a bumpy ride," and pulled him in.


End file.
